The Staircase Goes Up and Down

The field stretches flat until the horizon curve, marked only by the tall black pole. I am looking at my wrist. The watch ticks, a steady *tick-tock*, but the face has no hands. A woman stands near the pole. She looks at me with the half-recognition of an old neighbour, a pause before she names something I do not hear. Behind her, the staircase is already descending, but the upper flight simultaneously rises, curving into itself. I take a step toward the rising stairs. The steps are damp and emit the smell of dust and milk. I hear the distant echo of a single clock chime, and the woman simply watches me move toward the simultaneous climb.